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Story of Child Life 
in the ‘Philippines 


By 


Tohn Stuart Thomson 

yfu+hor of 


o4u+hor of 
"China Tlevolutionized ” 
"9F)e Chinese” 


"£ud and ftambocf(tc 

Illus+ra+ions by i 
‘paud and*p)iska / petersham 


IHe e pacmillan Company.^publisbers 

J J >Tei0^rk MCMXVU 


A 



Copyright, 1917, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1917. 


\ 



SEP [3 mi 

. I 

Norfooob $rcss 

J. S. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 


©CI.A476051 

*VU5 ( 


DEDICATED TO MY LITTLE FRIEND 

FRANCIS DORIS 


BY THE AUTHOR 










CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. Names 

II. Climate, Typhoons, Volcano . 

III. At Worship .... 

IV. Houses . . ■ 

V. Cocoa and Coffee . 

VI. Hemp and Sugar ... 

VII. The Coconut 

VIII. Indigo; Mango; Guava; Durian 

IX. The Forest .... 

X. Minerals . 

XI. Water Buffalo . 


XII. 

Bats ; Cattle ; Horses ; 

Cats ; Mon- 



KEYS .... 

. 

33 

XIII. 

Flying Ants; Locusts 

. 

35 

XIV. 

Boats and Fish 

. 

37 

XV. 

Saw Mill; Mudsleighs 

; Wooden 



Plows 

. 

39 

XVI. 

Umbrellas ; Chairs ; 

Milk-bottle ; 


> XVII. 

Milkman 

. 

42 

Home Life 

. 

44 

XVIII. 

Dress .... 

. 

47 

XIX. 

The “Adios” Feast 

. 

49 


vii 


PAGE 

• 4 
6 
10 
14 
16 
19 
21 
23 
26 
29 
3i 


PERSONS 


Fil, a Filipino boy. 

Filippa, his sister. 

Favra, her playmate. 

Moro, Fil’s playmate, a Mohammedan. 
Fil’s Father. 

Fil’s Mother. 

The Padre-priest. 

The Guest. 

Driver of the Water Buffalo Cart. 



It took me over a month and a half to reach 
the summer islands that I sought. In three 
weeks I had gone through the Panama Canal 
and had reached San Francisco, and in four 
weeks more I had crossed the world’s widest, 
most peaceful, and bluest ocean, the Pacific. 

There, like a string of pearls hanging from 
the golden Equator, I found thousands of won- 
derful islands of all sizes, but only two of them 
are very large. I found also my new and kind 
young friends : Fil ; his sister Filippa ; Fibs 
boy playmate named Moro, who came from 
the large southern island ; their parents and 
friends ; and the good Padre. Each one of 
them was shorter and darker than I. Yet they 
said to me: “The Stars and Stripes, now our 
flag also, makes us all American brothers, which 
we will be always.” 

B I 


2 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


“But how is it that you are called Filipinos, 
and live in the Philippine Islands?” I asked. 

Fil smiled and said: “Though I believe you 
know without asking me, I shall tell you to show 
that I know our romantic and interesting history. 

“Hundreds of years ago, many years before 
America became a nation, the roving Spaniards 
discovered these islands, and named them the 
Philip-pines, in honor of their king Philip. 
When the American Admiral Dewey won these 
islands from Spain, our name was not changed. 

“And our Christian names of Fil and Filippa 
have the same sound, and almost the same mean- 
ing, as Philippines,” added Filippa, her eyes 
smiling from under her cloud of beautiful hair, 
— hair longer and richer than an American 
girl’s hair, — and eyes darker and deeper than 
an American girl’s eyes. Perhaps her brows 
were a little bit flatter, and her nose was a 
little bit shorter and wider, than ours ; but 
still she was pretty, especially when she smiled, 
for she had beautiful white teeth. 

Then I turned to Fil’s playmate, Moro, and 
asked him what his rolling name could mean. 
Moro was even more eager and darker than Fil. 
He replied, as he bravely touched his toy sword : 

“I, too, am of the Malay race, but of a 
different religion from Fil. I am a Moham- 


NAMES 


3 


medan ; that is, I reverence the same prophets 
whom the Turks worship. I come from the 
southern islands of the Philippines. There we 
spend most of our time roving in boats, and 
hunting over the hills. The first white man 
who met us saw that we were as dark, and 
had the same religion, as the tribes of Morocco 
in Africa. That perhaps is why I am called 
Moro, the Mohammedan, whose father fears no 
man ; nor shall I, when I grow up.” 

“But we are all friends now under a new, 
friendly flag ; and we preach and practice love, 
instead of fear and fighting,” I replied. 

Filippa looked upon me with very happy eyes, 
when I said this ; for a girl seems to know 
wiser ways of settling quarrels than do boys. 
A boy becomes excited ; a girl thinks longer 
and acts more slowly. Certainly, Filippa’s 
gentle ways and the expression in her won- 
derfully deep eyes had more power with Fil 
and Moro than would strife and force. 

“Every name seems to have a pretty mean- 
ing in your Edenlike Philippines,” I remarked 
to Filippa’s playmate, Favra. 

“Yes,” she replied, “the Padre (pa'drai), our 
pastor or cleric, who knows so much, tells me 
that my name means the friendly one who does 
favors.” 



Next day I met the Padre. He was seated 
on a cane chair under a clump of whispering 
bamboos, which are giant grasses as tall and 
as strong as trees. 

We had hardly exchanged morning greet- 
ings, by saying “ Buenos dias (boo ai'nos de'as),” 
before we heard the children running along the 
white shell path, between the parklike tropical 
woods. 

“ Every one awakens early in this wonderful 
climate, yet no one seems to be fully awake,” 
I said. 

The good Padre replied: “We are' situated 
so near the Equator that the sun, rises into full 
and bright daylight at once.” 


4 


CLIMATE, TYPHOONS, VOLCANO 5 

“I seem to half dream all day. Is it the 
balmy warm air, or the scents of new flowers, 
or the equatorial sun ?” I asked. 

The Padre explained it by saying: “The 
sun throws more direct rays here ; and they 
pierce through thin hats, and especially through 
black clothes. It is best to wear thick, white 
paper helmets. Moreover, our climate is more 
damp than is America’s climate. 

“That is why you feel somewhat dreamy; 
and that is why everything in Nature, such as 
trees, fruits, flowers, ferns, and even animals 
and birds, grow so richly ; and why the flowers 
shed influences and perfumes on the air. It 
all appeals to the warmth, color, and dream- 
iness in your happy imagination. 

“You think of stories of Eden or Paradise 
perhaps, where one imagines no hard winter, no 
bare trees or lawns, no whiteness. Everything 
is more beautiful to look upon here. The birds 
and winds and rains drop seeds; and at once 
lavish plants grow up. You will soon become 
used to our warmer climate, because you will 
need to eat less meat and butter, which is the 
fuel that keeps you warm. Instead you will 
eat more rice and fruit, which will give you 
strength, without heating you.” 

At this moment, our little friend Moro pursed 


6 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


out his cheek and made a sound like a howling 
siren or a storm. 

“That noise reminds me of your awful 
typhoons. I passed through one of those whirl- 
ing storms, just as I approached these islands 
of beauty/’ I exclaimed. “Can you explain 
that great wonder?” I asked. 

“It is God, the Creator’s, magnificent but 
terrible act, such as you read about in the Book 
of Job or in the Psalms,” said the Padre, who 
crossed himself and bowed in piety. The good 
children, except Moro, all made the holy sign. 

Then the wise Padre continued : “Like great 
characters, for a long time gentle, — like peace 
which has covered the earth for years, — so, in 
our still, summer seas, suddenly in September, 
everything seems to contradict and be in rebel- 
lion, with a force unknown and unexpected 
before, — a force all the greater, because it 
was accumulating quietly for many months. 

“The heat becomes unbearable. The winds 
arise and sweep all one way, for a time. Then 
comes the black rain. The heavy typhoon soon 
begins to howl and to turn in a circle for two or 
three days. The wheeling storm moves from 
place to place, and finally dies down at sea.” 

Filippa inquired: “Why is such a circular 
storm of the Oriental tropics, called a typhoon ?” 


CLIMATE, TYPHOONS, VOLCANO 7 

The Padre explained: “It is a word that 
we have taken from the Chinese, who live not 
many hours away from us, across the water 
to the northwest. ‘Tai’ means great. 
‘Fung/ or ‘phoon/ means a wind. These 
storms sweep all the way from the Philippine 
Islands, across the seas to China. We like 
the expressive word which the Chinese have 
given these wind storms.” 

“We have another natural wonder here, the 
volcano,” said Favra. 

“Yes,” replied the Padre, “the Taal (Ta'al) 
and Mayon (Ma yon') volcanoes once were 
smoking and fiery mountains, shaped like a cone. 
Years ago fire and lava, which is molten rock 
that has cooled, poured from their hot, pointed 
tops, ran down the sides, and destroyed every- 
thing in their path.” 

“What is lava ?” asked Fil. 

The Padre replied : “ Even a volcano pro- 
duces some good. This melted rock, when it 
becomes cold, forms a light, porous stone, which 
is used for polishing. You use it in your 
bathroom, to rub ink off your hands. Lava 
stone is easily ground into powder. When 
mixed with soap, this ground lava becomes 
a useful cleaning and polishing powder.” 

“Nature is always useful, as well as grand 


8 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


and beautiful/’ remarked Fil’s father, who, 
dressed in a white silk suit and abaca hat, 
had just then come up the path. 

“ Where did you get that hat ?” I laughingly 
asked Fil’s father. 

“I’ll tell you some other time. It is made 
from reeds, woven under water to keep them 
damp and pliant. The hat, therefore, is light, 
durable, and cool,” he replied. 



When I arose next day and walked to the 
usual morning seat under the bamboos, I found 
only Moro there. 

“ Where is everybody else?” I asked. 

“At the Iglesia (ig lai se'a),” replied Moro. 

I knew iglesia was the Philippine word for 
church; so I said to Moro: “Let us go there 
too, and see what they are all doing.” 

After we had walked along the white shell 
paths, past the swaying fisher boats, over an 
ancient stone bridge, beneath tall palms and 
hanging vines and thick bananas, we beheld 
a wonderfully carved doorway, with statues 
in the niches. Over the tree tops, rose a noble 


9 


10 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


white dome. From the open windows, the 
sweet singing of sacred music came to our ears. 
It was the well-known Mass or communion 
music of our own land, consisting of the beauti- 
ful strains of the Gloria, the Sanctus, and the 
Benedictus. As we came nearer, the breeze 
wafted us sweet incense from the altar, sandal 
and spice and flower and cinnamon scents. 

Though Moro was of a different faith, he 
took off his hat ; so did I. The short Filipino 
men were dressed in white. The sweet-look- 
ing Filipino women were dressed in wide-striped 
skirts, and white waists, with very large collars 
starched stiff. Over their heads were large 
lace shawls called mantillas. They wore no 
hats, for they were very proud to show their 
fine long hair, filled with gold and jeweled pins. 

Every one dipped a finger in the water which 
was placed in a huge shell near the door. Then 
they bowed before the cross on the altar, 
which was shining at the end of the long 
aisle. 

In the front seats, under the high dome, we 
could see Filippa, her parents, and Favra. 
The colored light from the stained glass win- 
dows fell down in rays and clouds of beauty 
upon the altar boys, who wore robes of purple 
and white lace. 


AT WORSHIP 


ii 


The music of the blue and gold organ was 
subdued to a velvet whisper. Suddenly a 
boy arose behind the carved benches of the 
choir. He sang in a voice as clear as a bird’s : 

“Come, Holy Spirit, Come.” 

It was Fil who was singing. The censers were 
swinging. The organ began to drown even 
Fil’s clear voice. Then all the singers in the 
choir arose and filled the great dome, the long 
cathedral aisles, and even the palm grove out- 
side the windows, with a great burst of sacred 
music : 

“Holy, Holy is the Lord.” 

It was all very solemn and very sweet. 
Far richer than in the homeland, seemed the 
music, because of the greater natural beauty 
of the tropics. 

Then our good friend, the Padre, arose, 
and spoke to his people, about charity and 
missions and peace and the stranger within 
the doors. He spoke so kindly that we all 
regretted war, and even hated the name of 
war. He asked us to give gifts for the wounded 
and the poor in other sad, colder, harder lands 
of hate and evil. 

Then he extended his hands. A great bless- 


12 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


ing seemed to flow down from the pulpit and 
even from the walls of the holy temple of 
peace, where the white altar, the golden cross, 
and the colored windows shone out as signs of 
purity and love. 

When the service was dismissed, we all 
walked home together. 

“When are you going to be a Christian, 
little Moro ? ” inquired the kind Padre. 

“I am a Mohammedan. My people come 
from the southern Philippines. We worship 
one God, and Mohammed is his prophet. We 
make converts by the sword of force, rather 
than by preaching/’ replied Moro, his eyes 
looking strange and brave. 

“Tell me more about your religion. I have 
heard it is peculiar,” said Filippa. 

“When we pray, we face Mecca, instead of 
Jerusalem or Rome. At Mecca in Arabia is the 
Holy Book, which we call the Koran. There, 
also, is the birthplace of Mohammed, our 
prophet. We believe in troops of angels above, 
as well as in ‘jinns/ or spirits, on earth, who 
are ready to help us. We have no altars in our 
mosques or. churches. 

“ Our mosques are immense, plain structures, 
with only large Arabic letters of texts, painted 
on the walls and ceiling. Five times a day, the 


















« 











AT WORSHIP 


13 


Muezzin priest mounts the outside of the mosque 
tower, and calls the faithful to prayer. Each 
Mohammedan carries his own praying mat. 
After placing it on the tile floor beneath the 
thin pillars, he kneels and bows upon his mat, 
facing Mecca, where our prophet was born. 
We do not use music or organs/’ 

All this Moro explained to us. What he 
told about his religion was very different, very 
interesting, very new. 

“ There are good things in your religion,” 
said the kind Padre, as he placed his hand 
gently on Moro’s dark head. 

“You despise the use of intoxicating liquor. 
You teach the duty of giving alms and of being 
charitable to the poor, the unfortunate, and the 
sick. You teach that every one is his brother’s 
keeper, and should help his brother to succeed 
in life. You teach that cleanliness and plain 
living are almost a part of religion. And we 
Christians agree with you, Moro, in all these 
grand ideas ; for I think that, with all the sor- 
row now in the world, some of us have been too 
selfish, too luxurious, as though we thought we 
would live forever, arid had no duty except to 
ourselves.” 

I, too, felt conscience-stricken for my home- 
land and for myself, when I heard, in this odd 


14 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


and different quarter of our large world, the 
Filipino Padre’s true but kind moralizing over 
Moro’s different religion. 

“The bells! Oh, the silver-sweet bells!” 
exclaimed Filippa’s mother. 

“The bells of love and peace,” replied the 
Padre, as he glanced back at the twin towers 
of his white Iglesia (church) that shone over the 
grove of coconut palms. 



“What odd homes ! toy houses toppling over 
from their stilts !” I exclaimed, as we passed 
a remarkable village. All the buildings were 
set up on poles, and had ladders for their dwell- 
ers to climb up to the high doors. The houses 
looked as though the lower story had been 
washed away, and only the second story re- 
mained. Over each window and door projected 
a very neat eyebrow, so to speak, either to shed 
rain or to keep out the sun. 

“That is our famous nipa-thatch house used 
by the original Filipinos,” said Moro. “I 
can explain all about it, for all Moros, and 
many backward tribes, use these houses.” 

“Tell me everything/’ I urged. 

“First,” said Moro, “there is not one nail 
in a nipa-thatch house. Perched high in the 
is 


1 6 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


air on poles, as it is, you perhaps would think 
our typhoons would blow it over, just like a 
light bandbox.” 

“So I would think,” I replied. 

“Well,” laughed bright Moro, “let me ask 
you a question. What makes a pole snap 
before the rush of a storm? What makes 
a brick wall give way before a sudden wind ? 
And why does a tree or a reed bear the storm 
easily?” 

“Because the tree and the reed are elastic 
enough to give a little, — to bend instead of 
breaking,” I answered. 

“That is just it,” again laughed my little 
Master Moro. “Our small nipa hut, high in 
the air, sways a little, but rides out the storm. 
Every pole, every beam, and every rafter of 
the frame, is all made of hollow bamboo. Bam- 
boo is stronger than steel, because it bends 
and gives, and then springs back. There is 
no nail in the house. Every crosspiece is 
tied with rattan, the same vine with which 
you make cane chairs ; so you know how strong 
and elastic it is.” 

“And of what are the sloping roofs and the 
side walls made ?” I inquired. 

“Of the famous nipa palm,” Moro replied. “It 
grows in swamps, often near the sea. It looks 


HOUSES 


i7 


like a gigantic fern. Its wide leaves we lap 
one over another, and tie them to the bamboo 
frame by withes of tough cogon grass.” 

“Are you not afraid of fire ?” I asked. 

Moro frankly said: “Yes, but as our house 
is so cheap, we can build a new one easily. 
However, in this warm climate we cook in a 
separate house, and we bathe out of doors. We 
do not smoke within our nipa houses ; it is too 
dangerous.” 

“Tell our friend from across the purple 
ocean how we use the bamboo and the nipa 
plants, for other purposes besides building,” 
remarked little Fil. 

Moro continued: “From the sap of the 
nipa palm, we distill alcohol. From the hollow 
bamboo we make pipes for carrying water. 
We boil the tender new shoots of bamboo, 
and eat them like celery. We put a stopper 
into one joint of a hollowed bamboo, and use 
it for a bottle. The pliant bamboo root we 
make into whips. We make bridges, fences, 
window blinds, furniture, and carriages out of 
bamboo. We even make blow guns and shoot 
our arrows at birds, through the bamboo stalk.” 

“There are one hundred kinds of bamboo, 
and a thousand uses for the plant,” added 
Filippa. 

c 


i8 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


“I should imagine that the bamboo is the 
skeleton or the framework, and that the nipa is 
the skin of the Philippine structure/’ I remarked. 

“That is the doctor’s way of drawing a 
figure of speech,” laughed the Padre. 



The next morning Filippa’s mother refreshed 
us all with a cup of fragrant cocoa, so that we 
might begin the day in good spirits. As I was 
sipping it, the Padre remarked in good humor : 

“Did you Americans seize the Philippines 
merely for a cup of cocoa ?” 

I replied laughingly: “This cup of cocoa 
is so good, that I certainly would try to seize 
the Philippines for it.” 

Filippa’s mother and father both bowed and 
said I was complimentary, like a diplomat. 

Then I continued: “I am glad the Philip- 
pines are now ours, and yours too, because 
our money can help to develop the wonderful 
tropical products which do not grow in our 
colder America. I wish you would explain 
19 


20 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


something about cocoa and coffee, which we 
prize very much and which we send our ships a 
long way to secure. ” 

FiPs father, who was a planter of wide acres, 
replied : 

“The cocoa bean and the coconut are 
two very different plants. Do not confuse 
them. The cocoa bean, out of which you grind 
cocoa powder and chocolate for a drink, for 
bonbons, and for puddings, comes out of a 
fruit shaped like a large red cucumber. This 
fruit grows on a tender bush, which must be 
shaded by a thick banana palm. In each fruit 
are twenty of these seeds, or cocoa beans. 

“ They have hard skins, and are very bitter and 
stimulating. When eaten, they excite the heart, 
and thus make a person feel active and alive. 
Soldiers and athletes eat them, to relieve 
fatigue. As soon as the fruit is gathered, the 
beans must be dried in the sun, or be roasted. 
The cocoa bean is very oily. To make cocoa, 
the oil is extracted, when the beans are ground 
into a paste. To make chocolate, the oil is 
not extracted.” 

“I never ate a cocoa bean which was sweet; 
but a chocolate-drop is sweet/’ said Filippa, 
who had bought chocolate-drops in the candy 
stores. 


COCOA AND COFFEE 


21 


Her father explained: “We add sugar and 
vanilla, to the brown cocoa bean paste.” 

“Just think of practically growing chocolate 
bonbons on a tree, beneath the window of 
your nipa huts, in these wonderful Philippine 
Islands,” I added, and every one smiled. 

“It is really true, when one adds the sugar,” 
remarked the Padre. 

“Now tell me please about coffee, also,” I 
begged. 

FiFs father continued : 

“The coffee comes from another low bush. 
You choose a hillside, for, although the plant 
likes our heavy rains in the Philippines, it 
does not like to keep its roots long in water. 
It wants to drain them and to feel the warm 
sun. The leaves are long and glossy ; the 
blossoms are waxy white. The fragrance is 
richer than rose sweetened with sugar. The 
fruit is like a scarlet cherry; each contains 
two seeds. These two seeds are the coffee 
bean of commerce and of the breakfast table. 
They are ground in a small mill, as you know.” 

“How were the beans first discovered?” I 
inquired. 

FiFs father smiled and told this story: “One 
day a shepherd noticed that his goats, which 
had eaten the cherries off a coffee bush, danced 


22 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


about in high excitement as though they, in- 
stead of their master, were going to a fiesta. 
Then the shepherd ate the berries, too, and 
felt stimulated himself. That is how coffee 
in time came to our breakfast table. Instead 
of eating the berry, we grind it and steep it, 
and drink the liquor.” 

“But, father, the seeds are light colored, 
and not deep brown, when you open the fruit,” 
said Fil. 

“I know,” replied FiPs father. “We roast 
the seeds in an oven, to get rid of the moisture 
and to preserve and ripen the stimulating oils.” 

“Thank you all;” I exclaimed, “now I will 
behold a whole tropical story of geography and 
commerce, every time I look into a grocer’s 
window at home.” 



“ However, the richest products of our Philip- 
pine Islands are abaca (ab'aca) and sugar/’ 
said the fatherly Padre next morning, when 
I met him under the shade of the bamboos and 
the madre trees. 

“I am sure you do not know what abaca 
is,” laughed Filippa. 

“I guess from its name that it may be a 
cousin of tobacco ; it sounds like it : abaca, — 
tobacco.” 

“ Names are sometimes misleading,” replied 
the Padre. “The manila hemp, or abaca plant, 
is a nearer cousin of the banana palm. You 


23 


24 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


cannot make a sail or tie up a bag of potatoes, 
without using our manila hemp, or abaca. It 
is the strongest fiber known ; it does not weaken 
in water. The great hawsers that are used to 
pull the great ships, are made out of it. It all 
comes from the leaf of this Philippine palm.” 

“ Wonderful and beautiful and useful islands,” 
I confessed. “But how do you make a leaf 
into a cord, a hawser, a sail, or a bag ?” 

The Padre continued: “This big plant with 
leaves taller than a man, grows on a hill. We 
do not let it flower. The huge leaves are cut 
near the root, and new leaves grow up at once. 
All through the leaf run long tough ribs. We 
drag this over a big rough knife that is fastened 
in a board ; and thus we scrape away the soft 
pulp without breaking the fiber. The wet 
fibers, we hang over a fence in the sun, to dry. 

“Then we press the fibers all together, and 
ship them to you in big heavy bales, in the 
bottom of a ship. You weave the bales of fiber 
into bags, cloth, hawser ropes, canvas, tents, and 
cordage. We Filipinos, also, split the fiber and 
weave it into many kinds of cloth. Sometimes 
we mix silk or cotton with the abaca hemp.” 

“ I am sure our friend would like to learn about 
sugar,” remarked Fil, who had a sweet tooth 
for candy. 


HEMP AND SUGAR 25 

Fil’s father took up this part of the story, 
and said : 

“ Sugar of course comes from a sweet cane, 
which is grown on high land. The cane is cut 
down. A pony or a water buffalo is harnessed 
to a roller. We feed the ripened cane into the 
rollers. As the animal drives this roller around, 
the sugar cane is pressed through. The sweet 
juice is caught and put into kettles. This juice 
is heated several times, and stirred, and purified 
by bone charcoal. The white crystals separate 
from the dark molasses sirup. We sometimes 
feed the molasses to cattle and pigs, to make 
them fat for market.” 

Fil’s eyes looked very longingly as he listened 
to this tale of good things ; so I passed him a 
penny or two. 

"Is not sugar made also from very sweet, 
dark beets ? ” I inquired. 

"Not in these islands,” replied the Padre. 
"We find that the sugar cane gives a sweeter 
and a more nutritious product. The beet 
sugar is made in Europe and in the western 
states of America.” 

"What do you do with the pressed sugar 
cane ? ” I inquired. 

"We spread it out in the sun and dry it in 
large yards. It still contains much sugar. 


2 6 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


We use it for fuel, to light the fires under the 
kettles.” 

“What a waste !” I exclaimed. “You should 
use oil or gas for fuel, and should press every 
drop of sugar out of that valuable cane. Waste 
not ; want not, is as good a maxim for a nation 
as for a boy.” 

“If you are always that serious, like a lec- 
turer, the children may not like you so well,” 
remarked the gentle Padre. 

“Not at all,” replied Fil and Moro and Filippa 
and Favra, who perhaps remembered the pen- 
nies I had given to them. Then I hummed as 
we went home to have lunch, or “tiffin,” as 
they call it : 

“All lectures and no candy or fun 
Make Moro and Fil dull boys.” 



Moro was always up to tricks. I noticed 
that he was whispering something to Filippa 
who was laughing. 

“Tell it out,” demanded Filippa’s mother. 

“The bad boy said the coconut, which we 
are trying to break, is a hairy monkey’s head 
dried.” 

“Let me see it,” I demanded. 

Surely enough, there was plainly marked a 
monkey’s eyes and mouth and hair and nose. 

“We’ll soon settle this,” said Fil, who dashed 
the coconut on a stone, broke the hard shell, 
wasted half the sweet milk, — exposing the 
white, fragrant meat. 

“Did you know that the coconut furnishes 
27 


28 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


cloth, mats, roofs, fuel, soap oil, candy, puddings, 
cups, dyes, lamp oil, butter, candles, axle 
grease, ropes, brushes, furniture, shade, food, 
drink, apd liquor to intoxicate/’ asked Filippa’s 
mother, who was as wise as Fil’s father, 

“ Please go slowly,” I remarked, “for you 
are making me think that these islands are 
Paradise ; that you touch some button, and 
every wish comes true, as in the fairy stories. 
In our country, a tree furnishes only lumber ; 
or sometimes nuts or sugar in addition, but 
never over two things at once. Now you would 
have me believe that one slim tree with only 
a tuft of leaves at the top, furnishes you twenty 
useful and rich products. This is really too 
much to believe, though I ask you to forgive 
me for being so frank.” 

Filippa’s mother replied : “These are the 
gardens of the sunny Equator ; and you can, 
therefore, expect wonderful things. The rough 
covering of the shell is woven into mats, brushes, 
ropes, and bags. The fibers of the leaves 
make a fine cloth. The dried leaves make a 
roof-thatch. The trunk makes foundation 
poles. The coconut itself is fruit and drink. 
When the white meat is dried, it is shredded for 
pastry and candy. When the coconut meat 
is pressed, the oil extracted is used for fuel, 


THE COCONUT TREE 


29 


light, hair pomades, butter, candles, and grease. 
It is used also in making the best hand soaps ; 
in fact, it makes the only soap that can be used 
with salt sea water.” 

“ Please let me tell all its other valuable 
qualities,” said Fil. 

“If you cut a coconut in half, you have 
two cups, or dishes. You can draw the milk 
through a small hole, plug the hole, and use 
the shell as a float. If you burn the shell, you 
can make a deep dye from the ashes, — a dye 
that will not fade or wash out.” 

“Til tell you more about it,” Moro eagerly 
intruded. “The oddest use for a smoothed 
half of a coconut shell, is to use it as a rat- 
guard, to shed off rats from our strings of dried 
fruit hanging from the roof. As the rat comes 
down the rattan rope, the halved coconut shell 
tips, and down he falls from its smooth sur- 
face, to the floor, and misses the hanging fruit. 

“If you climb up the high coconut tree, 
and cut a hole in the flowering stalk, the juice 
will run out. This is called the delicious 
‘tuba’ liquor, and we catch it in cups made 
from half of a coconut shell.” 

“And if you ferment and distill that liquor,” 
said the Padre, “you have the cocoa wine which 
is much used for medicine in America.” 


30 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


Filippa’s mother then remarked: “I have 
seen coconut oil, placed in a coconut shell, 
burning along a coconut wick, as a lamp, in 
a house built out of coconut stems and leaves, 
under a coconut grove ; and the Filipino family 
were eating coconuts, and drinking coconut 
‘tuba’ juice, at a table made from coconut 
stalks.” 

“That must have been in Coconutville, when 
a coconut clock was striking, under a coconut 
moon,” laughed Fil, who sometimes was full 
of smart wit. 

“ But what I have said is exactly and solemnly 
true,” replied his gentle mother. 

“I understand it now,” I replied, “and I 
see how one coconut tree would make me richer 
than a whole forest of poplar or oak trees at 
home.” 

Hungry Moro remarked: “I wish that this 
moment I had coconut shredded over some 
Bebinka cakes.” 

“What are Bebinka cakes ?” I inquired. 

“They are pancakes made from fermented 
corn and rice dough, mixed. Every Filipino 
is fond of them,” explained Filippa’s mother. 



“If you will remain in our sunnier Philip- 
pines, HI tell you about plants and flowers 
and fruits, that you have never even heard 
about,” said sunny little Filippa, who herself 
was as beautiful as a flower, and as soft to touch 
as a fruit. 

“Tell about our indigo,” suggested her brother 

Fil. 

Filippa looked very wise, pointed to her 
indigo skirt, and continued : “You get your dyes 
from the benzene of coal tar, but they do not 
stand washing or sunlight, as well as our bright 
and strong vegetable dyes. We take our indigo 
plant, and steep the leaves in water for twelve 
hours, in a stone tank. Then Fil drains off 
the yellow liquor. This soon turns green. 

31 


32 


\f ' 

FIL AND FILIPPA 

Then blue sediment settles in Nature’s wonder- 
ful chemical way, under the strong sunlight. 
We drain off the water, and cut the indigo 
cakes into cubes.” 

“Very well told,” remarked Filippa’s mother. 
“This is a dye which will not fade. It lasts 
as long as the gown. Now, Moro, I would 
like you to tell about mangoes and guavas and 
durians ; for you are always eating them.” 

Moro laughed, and began to throw sticks 
up into a tall tree. 

“What are you doing ? Why don’t you 
answer ?” I inquired. 

“I’m trying to knock down a custard, one 
foot long and half a foot deep,” he replied. 

“Such nonsense. Custards in my country 
are made out of eggs and are baked in ovens,” 
I said. 

“Not this better kind,” replied Moro, who 
brought down a huge fruit, all covered with 
sharp spurs and spikes, sharper and harder 
than rose-thorns. 

“Nature has kept her rich custard guarded 
by spikes and by an awful odor,” remarked Fil’s 
father, as he broke open the thick skin with 
an ax. 

“But it’s worth the trouble,” said Moro, 
who pointed out the heart of the fruit, which 


INDIGO, MANGO, GUAVA, DURIAN 33 

truly was one solid, delicious natural custard, 
one foot long, — enough for a whole Filipino 
family. 

“The monkeys know how to open the spiked 
fruit better than you do,” said Fil. “They 
throw them from the high branches. The 
fruit breaks open on the ground. Then the 
wild monkeys race down the tree, and eat up 
the custard durian. Who said that a monkey 
does not think ?” 

Everybody laughed at this odd but true 
tale of the remarkable Philippines. 

“I know something about guava, for I eat 
guava jelly with my turkey and venison at 
home, but I never knew that it came from the 
far-away Philippine Islands. Is it a root or 
a seed? ,, I inquired. 

“Oh, no !” replied Moro. “It’s a fruit taken 
from that low tree over there. The flowers are 
white. The fruit, shaped like a pear, is yellow.” 

“What makes the delightful jelly red?” I 
inquired. 

“Perhaps the cooking, or the sugar that is 
added,” suggested Fil’s mother. 

“You have not yet told about mangoes. 
Please hand our friend one,” said Filippa. 

Moro climbed up and up a dizzy height, into 
an evergreen tree sixty feet high. He brought 


34 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


down in his pockets, several fruits as large 
as cucumbers, only the colors were red and 
yellow. 

“Eat one. They are the most delicious 
and juicy fruit known in the whole world, — 
just like wine,” said Moro. 

I bit eagerly into one, and at once threw it 
far away. Everybody laughed at my strange 
action. 

“Why, it’s turpentine; it’s paint,” I said. 
“I didn’t think you’d do this to me, Moro.” 

“Swallow it anyway. That turpentine smell 
lasts only a second,” explained Filippa. 

I tried another mango, and found it to be 
the juiciest and sweetest fruit that I ever ate, 
dripping wine, full of refreshment in a hot 
climate, food and drink and medicine in one. 

“What do you do with its large seed, as hard 
as iron ?” I inquired. 

“I’ll show you,” replied Moro. 

The bright boy at once lighted a fire, and 
roasted the hard seed in the ashes. Then he 
brushed and washed it clean ; and handed it 
to me, when it became somewhat cool, saying : 
“Eat it too; it is really chocolate toast now.” 

And such I found it to be. 

“Your mango then is a whole breakfast, — 
toast, drink, and fruit,” I said. 



When we all met next morning, again under 
the bamboo grove, the good Padre said : 

“If you were lost in your woods at home, you 
would soon wander and die ; but if you were 
lost here, you could live for years.” 

“Then let us go into such a forest of Eden,” 
I replied, and held out my hands to Fil and 
Filippa. 

Away we went down the white shell road 
across the canal ; and soon we were lost among 
the many trees, palms, and vines. 

The Padre pointed to the coconut tree and 
the nipa palm, and said : “As we already have 
told you, they would afford you a house, food, 
drink, light, and soap.” 


35 


36 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


“What is this great hard tree?” I inquired. 

The Padre explained : “That’s the valuable 
mahogany. Thin strips of it are polished, and 
used to cover the woodwork of your piano and 
bureau at home.” 

“And this other wonderful, new tree?” I asked. 

“That is the molave. It is so hard that sea 
worms and white ants cannot bore into it. So 
it is good for boats, wharves, and frames for big 
buildings,” replied the Padre. 

“Here is a pretty tree,” remarked Filippa. 

“You should think so,” answered her father. 
“It is the lanete. Its wood is so strong and 
pliable, that your violin was made from part of 
one.” 

“Here’s a skipping rope,” exclaimed Filippa. 

“No, a bo^t rope,” explained Fil. 

“That is really the bejuco rattan vine,” re- 
marked the Padre, who knew botany and the 
lore of nature. “It is three hundred feet long, 
as long as a city block, if you pull it out of the 
jungle and away from the tree tops, where it 
has climbed like a huge snake. We can use it 
for bridge or carriage ropes, or we can divide 
the strands and make cloth, or hats, or cord out 
of it.” 

“What gorgeous and sweet-scented flowers,” 
exclaimed Filippa, pointing to a great tree. 


THE FOREST 


37 

“That is the Ylang,” said the Padre.' “Out 
friend uses its perfume on his handkerchief ; 
but he did not know, perhaps, that the flower 
grew in the far-away Philippines. It has the 
deepest fragrance of any flower, whether on 
plant, bush, or tree.” 

“What can its strange name mean?” I in- 
quired ; for I seemed to have no acquaintance 
with nature at all, in this wonderfully different 
land. 

The Padre, who knew many languages, ex- 
plained : “It is a Malay word which means, 
‘The chief flower of all flowers’ ; and such I 
think it really is. We capture the fragrance by 
distilling the flowers, and mixing pure alcohol 
with the essence.” 

“If you were ill in the forest, and caught 
fever from the mosquitoes and ants that stung 
you, the bark of this tree would cure you, just 
as quinine does,” continued the Padre. 

“Is it the little quinine, or cinchona, tree?” 
I inquired. 

“No, it is a sister tree. We call it ‘Dita’ 
in our language.” 

“I said our forests would house and feed you. 
Now I’ll show you how they would also clothe 
you. Please show me your handkerchief, 
Filippa,” said the Padre. 


FIL AND FILIPPA 




38 


/ 


Filippa handed him a little square of linen 
cloth, so thin and watery in color, or absence of 
color, that I could look through it. 

“In your country, that little handkerchief 
would be worth twenty-five dollars. It is woven 
from the very thin fibers drawn from pineapple 
leaves, and is called Pina cloth, or Pina linen.” 

Filippa’s mother added : “It is finer than silk 
or hemp linen. We make our best shiny gowns 
and laces out of it. Because it is so fine, it 
takes a long time to get enough threads to 
weave and work it together. The time spent in 
making it, explains its great cost.” 

“I see now why Filippa is promised a Pina 
gown for our coming feast, or fiesta day, that 
you kindly promise to give in my honor before 
I go away. It certainly is a cloth fit for a 
queen,” I' replied. 

“Oh! when will the feast day come?” 
Filippa eagerly inquired. 

“Soon,” laughed her mother. 

“Here is a more wonderful tree, from the 
gum of which we make automobile tires, rubber 
heels, elastic bands, hot water bags, rain coats, 
rubber shoes, hose, and so on,” exclaimed the 
Padre. 

I looked ; and surely enough, there was the 
identical rubber tree which we see in florists’ 



" T 





















I 





















































« 



































































































I 












* 
















































THE FOREST 


39 


shops or in the greenhouse at home ; only this 
tree was larger. Its thick leaves were nearly 
as large as a hat. 

“We cut a hole in the bark, and, when the 
yellow gum oozes out, we boil it down thick, 
till it is dark colored. Then we mix it with 
chalk and sulphur ; and behold, afterwards we 
roll out your automobile tire/’ explained the 
wise Padre. 

“ Could you pull the rubber tree out as high 
as the stars, and would it snap back again ?” 
asked joking Moro. 

“Stop your joking,” replied Fil’s mother. 
“You know very well that the rubber tree itself 
is not pure gum, any more than the maple tree 
in America is pure sugar. It is the gum of the 
rubber tree that becomes the rubber.” 


/Ohapter X 

MDinerats 


“It is not only what towers above us, that 
makes our islands rich. Dig at your feet, and 
you will find valuable minerals ! Magellan, the 
Spaniard, first discovered the Philippine Islands 
while he was on a search for gold, though I 
think a rubber tree, or a bamboo, is more valu- 
able than gold,” said the wise Padre. 

“We get gold in two ways,” explained Fil. 
“We wash it from scooped-up gravel, and we 
break it out of rock with a hammer.” 

“And how do you melt your iron and copper ?” 
I inquired. 

“We dig coal, and use bamboo pipes and a 
bellows to make the draft. We put the ore into 
a clay kettle, and melt the rock out of it. Then, 
when the iron is pure, we heat it again until it 
is red, and beat it with hammers into shapes. 
Thus we make it into wheels, spears, axes, and 
so on,” explained Fil, who had watched the 
workmen at their labors. 

“I know little about practical, mechanical 
affairs ; tell me more,” urged Filippa. 

“We have petroleum oil, just as America 
has ; also, lead and paint ores. We have 

40 


MINERALS 


4i 


burnt-out volcano hills, composed of sulphur 
down into their deep hearts. ” 

“That is like a very bad place, way down 
below, that I have read about,” interrupted 
Moro ; and Fil’s mother and the Padre shook 
their fingers at him for joking. 

Fil continued: “We have beautiful marble 
quarries, out of which we can carve statues and 
table tops, and tops for seats. Our marble is 
full of colored veins just like jewels. Then we 
also have gypsum mines, which furnish both fer- 
tilizer for land, to make crops grow high, and 
plaster of Paris, out of which we make pretty 
white statues.” 

“Wonderful !” I said, “I never thought of all 
this, when at home I bought the lovely white 
statues of lions and birds, from the vendor man 
with the basketful, on our street corner.” 


f 





We were all so tired when we came out of 
the wood to the canal, that Fibs father told us 
to wait until a buffalo cart came down the 
white shell road. 

“A buffalo cart!” I exclaimed. “Pm afraid 
to ride in that. We used to shoot buffaloes in 
our country, and the few now remaining we 
guard behind iron fences in zoo gardens.” 

“Here he comes!” exclaimed Fil and Moro 
together. 

“Boys, boys, be careful!” I cried. 

“Let us frighten our guest,” whispered Moro. 

The buffalo sniffed at me, a stranger, and 
would have charged with his head down ; but 


42 


WATER BUFFALO 


43 


the man who had a rope tied to a ring in the 
buffalo's soft nose, pulled the animal back. 

“Get down, you foolish boy!" I exclaimed. 

But before I could stop him, brave little 
Moro had climbed up between the fierce look- 
ing animal's thick, long, sweeping horns, which 
extended from his large head back to his 
shoulders. 

“Please get into the cart, everybody," Fil's 
father ordered, in a hospitable manner, bowing 
and waving his arm. It was indeed a high 
step. 

The cart had solid wooden wheels, made 
out of one thick section that had been cut from 
a mahogany tree. There was no iron rim 
around the edge of the wheel. The sides of the 
cart, however, were light, as they were made 
from bamboo posts with rattan vine woven be- 
tween them. 

The driver sat on the shafts, and directed 
the heavy animal, just as much by words as by 
pulling the long rope. 

“Why do you call these strong animals 
water buffaloes ?" I asked Fil. 

“Because, to escape the flies and the heat, 
the animal refuses to work during the heat of 
the day, and rushes off into a stream, or into 
the sea, to cover himself with mud and sand 


44 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


and water and weeds. All you can see above the 
stirred-up water are his large eyes and two wicked 
looking horns, which are as thick as a branch of 
a tree. ,, 

“What an odd tail he has, much like a mule’s 
hairless tail. It looks like a piece of hose- 
pipe,” I exclaimed. 

Moro, way up on the buffalo’s neck, heard 
me and laughed: “He can’t reach me with his 
rubber tail.” 

“But I’ll reach you, Sir, if you don’t get 
down soon from your dangerous perch,” said 
Fil’s father. 

The Padre explained: “We sometimes call 
these animals carabao. We use them for plow- 
ing, for drawing our sugar to market, for pressing 
our hemp mill, for turning our water wheels and 
sugar rollers, for pulling the huge logs of hard- 
wood out of the thick forest. When the roads 
are too muddy for wheeled carts, we make a 
mud sleigh with runners ; and the water buffalo 
with his thick hoofs pulls our loads of rice bags 
through the ooze.” 

“And we eat him too, though his steaks are 
tougher than cow meat,” laughed Fil. 

“And we make taws and whips out of his 
thick hide to correct little boys, if they have 
too much to say sometimes,” remarked Fil’s 


WATER BUFFALO 


45 


father, who winked at me, showing that his 
words were more severe than were his intentions 
or acts. Like the terrier, he just liked to 
frighten people ; his bark was worse than his 
bite, as the saying is. 


0 hap+er XII J)a+s ; 
3ttle;TUbrses; C a+S : 
J DJonkeus 


“Let us stop here,” begged Fil. 

The driver, who wore a mushroom-shaped 
bamboo hat, pulled the water buffalo to a stop. 
All, except Filippa and Favra, got off at the 
mouth of a cave. 

“I won’t go in or near it,” exclaimed Filippa. 

“Girls are afraid of real things, of imaginary 
noises, and even of unreal shadows,” jeered Fil. 

“No wonder, if you refer to this damp cave,” 
remarked Fil’s mother. 

Creeping up quietly to the entrance, Fil and 
Moro threw stones and oranges and mangoes up 
to the echoing roof. 

“Lie down quick,” shouted Fil’s father. 

We had need to stoop, for there was a whirring 
in the roof of the cave and over its mouth, like 
the sound of birds or aeroplanes. 

“What are they, owls or eagles ?” I ex- 
claimed. 

“Furry fruit-bats, as large as flying cats,” 
laughed Fil, who was proud of his secret cave 
and of his discovery. 


46 


BATS, CATTLE, MONKEYS 


47 


“You don’t really mean to say that those large 
flying things have fur, and eat fruit ?” I asked. 

“Exactly,” replied Fil’s father. “These are 
the large Philippine bats. The wings of some 
of them are three feet across. Ladies use their 
fur to decorate gowns. The bats live on fruit, 
just as monkeys do ; only the bats eat at dusk, 
and sleep during the day. That is why we 
caught them napping, by going to the cave in 
daylight.” 

“Wonderful country! Wonderful new kinds 
of life ! I notice too that your cattle have 
humps on their shoulders,” I remarked. 

“Yes,” replied Fil’s father, “our cattle, 
though smaller than yours, have high humps 
on their shoulders. They are of the Indian and 
Chinese breed ; not of the English breed. But 
they are very good animals and have beautiful 
soft eyes, which seem to cry and plead for 
pity. We use them also to draw our carts.” 

“I notice that others of the Philippine ani- 
mals are also of the toy order ; tiny but lovely 
specimens, like your spirited but small, black 
horses,” I remarked. 

“Yes,” said. Fil’s father, “our Malay horses, 
just like the Chinese horses, are more like 
spirited little ponies. They have hard mouths, 
but when they know you and are well treated, 


4 8 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


they obey well. Some day, when you ride over 
the hills on one, you will see how sure-footed 
they are on the trails ; as safe as mountain goats. 
Your larger horses would tumble over in those 
difficult places.” 

One of the disturbed bats had settled in a 
tree. He was clinging upside down, with his 
wings folded over his eyes. Up the trunk of the 
tree, the oddest kind of a cat was climbing after it. 

“That cat should be a fisherman,” I exclaimed 
in a joking manner. 

“Yes,” answered Fil, “some of our yellow cats 
have odd, hooked tails, just like monkey tails.” 

“Maybe they once hung from tree branches 
by their tails, along with the furry monkeys,” 
suggested Moro, who often thought of the odd 
side of things. 

“What a gripping tale you are telling,” 
added Fil, who indulged in roguish puns. 

“Well, our monkeys are as good for men to 
eat, as for cats,” said Moro. 

“Imagination has as much as taste to do with 
food ; and, unless you call my next stewed 
monkey dish, deer or lamb, I won’t eat it,” I 
remarked. 

Fil and Moro laughed and winked ; for they 
had planned this true but strange story to make 
me feel uncomfortable for a minute. 



bap+er XII, 



nts and 


ocusts 


We all climbed back into the buffalo-wagon, 
to go homeward. On the way, we passed a 
house which had collapsed in the middle, as 
though a great weight had broken its backbone. 

“A blind, flying ant did that,” said Fil. 

“Now, Fil, you really think I’m from the 
backwoods ; you wish me to believe impossible 
tales,” I replied. 

“Not a bit of it,” said Fil. “A flying white 
ant broke the thick beams of that big building, 
just as though a mountain fell on it, or as if an 
earthquake had rent it.” 

“Why, then, did they not stop the ants, the 
silly, lazy people ? ” I exclaimed. 

“Because they couldn’t see or hear them,” 
said Fil. “You see, it happens in this way. Our 
deadly white ant flies in a cloud of ants. When 
he reaches a house, he bores inside ; then he is 
happy. He feels his way. He does not need 
to see. He just follows his nose, so to speak. 

“ His sense of smell, perhaps, draws him to the 
lumber of the house on which he lives. He does 
not like air. So, when he reaches a beam, he 


49 


50 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


and all the other brother ants eat out the 
heart of it ; but they do not break the shell, 
which is painted. The people in the house do 
not know anything about this, for the ants of 
course make no noise, and the painted outside 
surface of the beam is unbroken. 

“ Suddenly there is a strain during a typhoon, 
or a jar is caused by some person walking over- 
head ; and down comes the whole house, like a 
person whose bones suddenly give way and be- 
come powder. The ants have escaped, because 
they have eaten the whole beam and have gone 
elsewhere for food.” 

“ Can’t you catch and destroy such awful 
pests?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes! It’s great fun,” replied Filippa. 
We place a pail of water in a dark place, and light 
a candle which floats on a saucer. The ants fly 
to the light. Their wings are burnt off ; and, 
silly, half-blind things, they all get drowned or 
wet, so that we can gather and destroy them.” 

“They can nip you, too,” said Moro, who 
was slapping at something on his hand. 

“Some people in the Philippines eat insects 
— the locusts. They fry them in cocoanut oil. 
Did you ever hear of such a wonder?” asked 
Filippa. 

“Come to think of it, yes; for in the Bible 


FLYING ANTS AND LOCUSTS 51 

it says that the food of John the Baptist, the 
great prophet, was locusts and wild honey, 
when he was in distress in the wilderness.” 

“What does locust mean?” asked the wise 
Padre. Nobody seemed to know. 

“It means leaping,” said the Padre. 

“That’s how we catch them,” said Fil. “Be- 
fore their wings grow, they jump. We dig 
deep ditches and chase them by beating drums, 
for they dislike noise. They jump and fall into 
the ditch, which, however, is too high for them 
to jump out of. Then we pour on oil and burn 
them.” 

“If we didn’t, they’d eat up all our crops,” 
remarked the Padre. 

“I know a bird that catches them. I’ve seen 
it,” said Fil, whose eyes were very sharp, like a 
boy scout in the woods. 

“What kind of a bird?” inquired Filippa, 
who loved bird pets. 

“A kind of Chinese ground-lark. It has 
large eyes and a long bill, and its feathers are 
spotted,” replied Fil. 



We were passing over the bridge that carried 
the road over an arm of the sea, — the purple 
sea, which had a white foam-edge. 

I noticed a boat moving against the tide* It 
had no engine, no sails, no rowers at the oar- 
locks. Only one man was on deck, leaning on 
a long pole. He walked slowly from the front 
to the back of the boat, still leaning on the long 
pole. 

“Here’s another wonder of your marvelous 
Philippines — a boat moving without exerting 
power,” I exclaimed. 

Fil looked at Moro and smiled. I saw that 
they both pitied my ignorance in a strange 
land. Then Fil said kindly: 

“Don’t you see the man walking steadily 
52 


BOATS AND FISH 


53 


along the running board, from the front to the 
back of the boat ? Well, he is pushing on a 
long pole, and that power moves the boat against 
the tide. The pole reaches down to the bottom, 
through the shallow water. If the boat is 
loaded, and if the cargo is very heavy, two men 
push on each pole. The pole is a thick bamboo 
stick.” 

“I also notice a curved deck or covering, 
laid over the boats,” I said. 

“Yes, that is a roof, or thatch, made out of 
nipa palm leaves tied on to bamboo sticks,” 
Fil explained. 

“Please look!” said sweet little Filippa. 
“Out there on the purple ocean is a more 
wonderful boat still.” 

I looked. Oddest of sights ! A boat shaped 
like a long leaf was scudding before the wind. 
The one sail seemed to pull the boat over from 
the wind. No one was really in the boat. But 
sitting far out, on a bamboo out-rigger, high 
into the wind-side, above the water, a sailor 
was balancing the boat and holding the sail by 
a long rope. Only on one side of the boat was 
there a bamboo pole fixed lengthways. It did 
not seem to be a well-balanced boat, yet it 
sailed along at a great speed ; and risky as the 
sport seemed, the sailor sat perfectly safe on 


54 FIL AND FILIPPA 

his high and dangerous looking perch, above the 
water. 

“What kind of boat is that ?” I asked. 

“An out-rigger boat. Some people call it a 
dug-out boat,” replied Filippa. 

‘TU tell you more about it,” added Fil. 
“The boat itself is half of a solid log, hollowed 
out by fire and axe and knife. It is chipped 
and scraped smooth on the outside, and the ends 
are pointed. If the wind dies down, the sailor 
has to paddle the heavy boat home. Then he 
sits over on the side opposite the out-rigger, so 
as to balance it. But when he has hoisted sail, 
he sits on the out-rigger, as the sail balances 
the boat on the sailing side, opposite the wind. 
The boat easily rolls over, because it has no 
sharp keel going down into the water. But it is 
swifter before the wind, just because it has no 
keel to keep it back.” 

“Very clever are your Filipino sailors,” I 
admitted. “Tell me if the boats are used for 
other purposes than sport.” 

“Oh, yes,” said quiet little Favra, Filippa’s 
chum. “The sailors fish in them and bring us 
home fish with names as wonderful as are their 
colors.” 

“Tell me the names, please,” I asked. 

Favra slowly thought of three and replied : 


BOATS AND FISH 


55 


“The pompano, all silver, gold, and purple, and 
as wide as it is long ; the fighting barracuda, so 
hard to bring in to the boat ; and the leaping 
tuna, that jumps out of the water and out of 
the boat perhaps.” 

Fil added: “Then there’s the bonito, as big 
as a pig, though its name jokingly means ‘good 
little one’ ; the sail fish which lifts its fin into 
the wind ; and the garoupa.” 

“Wonderful names,” I admitted. 

“And all wonderfully good to eat,” added 
Moro, who was often 'thinking of dinners and 
feasts. 



“At what are you going to earn your living 
when you grow up, Fil ?” asked the Padre, 
who was his teacher, when we all met again 
under the whispering bamboos next morning. 

Fil thought a minute, pursed his chest out like 
a pouter pigeon, and replied to the great admi- 
ration of Filippa, who was a very loyal sister : 

“I shall be a Senator, or President.” 

“Come down from the clouds, Master Fil,” 
replied his father; “stop dreaming and say 
something practical. There can be only one 
President and only a few score Senators. So if 
every one had your aims, millions would starve. 
Yet millions are working happily, and earning 
wages which buy them what they need, if their 
ideas are not too selfish. They do not need to 
bow to wretched, cringing politics.” 

56 


SAW MILL, MUD SLEIGHS S7 

“At what do they work?” eagerly inquired 
Fil. 

“Come and see,” said Fil’s father and the 
Padre together. We all followed. 

“Here’s a lumber yard; let us go in,” said 
Fil’s father. 

“That man on top of that huge, uplifted log 
will topple off, and that man underneath will 
get his eyes filled with sawdust,” I exclaimed. 

“That’s our way of sawing lumber,” explained 
Fil’s father. “We lift up one end of the log. 
One man gets on top and the other man below ; 
and between them they pull up and down the 
heavy saw, until half of the log all feathers out 
into many boards. Then they raise the other 
end, and the men saw down to meet those first 
cuts, while board after board falls down.” 

“Don’t you have round saws of steel, driven 
by machinery?” I asked. 

“Not always,” said Fil’s father. “The wages 
here are so low that we can afford to hire men 
to do handwork. This gives many men work, 
and keeps them from being idle and dis- 
contented.” 

“But here is one very round log which they 
are sawing across grain, into round wheels ; 
and they are boring one hole into the center,” I 
exclaimed. 


58 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


“They really are wheels for buffalo carts. 
Don’t you remember your ride the other day ?” 
asked Fil. 

I did remember the heavy, creaking wheel, 
made of one solid piece of wood. 

“They never need an iron rim,” added Fil’s 
father; “and so are not as heavy as they 
look.” 

“Why, here’s a low sleigh, being made out 
of bamboo poles, runners and boards. Do you 
have winter here after all ?” I asked. 

“No, nothing but hottest summer always. 
But we have much rain, and our roads are not 
all paved with rock,” explained Fil’s father. 
“If we used those high wheels on the muddy 
roads, they would sink so far down that the 
buffalo or bullock could not pull out the cart 
that was loaded with rice or sugar.” 

“So you see, the sleigh slips more easily 
through the slippery mud,” added Fil. 

“ But what if you fell off, a mile from a cross- 
ing?” I asked laughingly. 

“Oh, he jokes too, and you don’t check him,” 
remarked Fil, who looked at his father. Fil’s 
father smiled. 

“What is this tough, crooked elbow stick, 
fixed to a long pole ?” I inquired. 

“A plow,” answered Fil wisely. 


SAW MILL, MUD SLEIGHS 


59 


“Don’t joke. How can you have a plow 
wholly made of wood ?” I asked. 

“I’ll tell you,” said Fil. “You see our rice 
fields are flooded and soft. We do not need a 
solid heavy steel plow, such as you need in 
hard, dry land. The water buffalo, who loves 
to wade through the flooded rice fields, easily 
pulls this bent stick, which plows up the mud. 
Then we drain the field and plant the rice seed- 
lings, and flood the field again, because rice must 
grow in water.” 

“It is a peculiar but lovely Philippines that 
you live in ; so different from our country, but 
perhaps even more charming,” I added. 



^hap+en XVI 

TJmbrellas; Oaks; 
^__jb9ilK-bottle 


“ Please show us an umbrella shop/’ begged 
Filippa and Favra together; for they had been 
whispering about what they would like to see. 

“This way, then,” said her father and the 
Padre. 

We walked along several narrow streets, 
which had bamboo blinds hung between the 
second stories, so as to keep out the strong sun. 

When we came to a certain door space, 
which really had no hinged door, Filippa’s 
father moved aside the dangling ropes, made of 
glass and bamboo beads, which hung across the 
entrance. This made a tinkling noise, and 
attracted the workman to the front. 

“We would like to see your umbrellas,” ex- 
plained FiFs father. 

I thought the workman would show us silk or 
cloth ones, that would roll up tight. 

“Why, this one is very thick,” I said. 

“Lift it. It really is not heavy,” explained 
FiFs father. 

“How is it made ?” I inquired. 


60 


UMBRELLAS; CHAIRS; MILK-BOTTLE 61 


“It is made out of split bamboos, which are 
spread out in a circle. Oiled silk, or oiled 
hemp cloth, is pasted over the frame. It all 
costs very little, ” explained Fil’s father. 

“But they are so thick, I could not put more 
than one in my umbrella stand at home,” I said. 

“There you are joking again,” laughed Fil, 
who added : “We Filipinos hang our umbrella 
up on the veranda roof, where it is ornamental, 
as well as useful when wanted.” 

“You see our umbrellas are made in pretty 
colors,” explained Filippa, who certainly showed 
that she would become a good housekeeper. 

“Now, would you like to see a chair-shop, 
where they use no saw or plane or nails ?” asked 
Fil. 

“It seems nonsense, because our chairs at 
home are sawn from oak logs ; and they are so 
filled with tacks and nails that they tear my 
clothes,” I replied. 

“Around this corner,” said Fil, who was 
proud to lead the way. 

Surely enough, Filipino workmen were tying 
lengths of bamboo poles together, with tough 
rattan vine, for the frame of a chair. The back 
was made of laced rattan and grasses. The seat 
was made of split bamboo, round side up, and 
all was as smooth, restful, light, and pliable as 


62 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


could be wished ; and not a dangerous nail nor 
a saw used to make it. 

“You can throw these chairs about. They 
never break, because they give way a little, like 
a spring. They are elastic, yet strong,” ex- 
plained Fil’s father. 

“And they cost only a few cents,” added the 
Padre. 

“We don’t care when they burn up,” remarked 
Fil, who received from his father a stern look, 
and the order not to joke too much. 

As we walked home, we passed a man who 
carried a bamboo over one shoulder. At one 
end of the pole hung a thick piece of hollow 
bamboo. At the other end of the pole hung an 
earthenware jug, tied in a net of rattan. Be- 
hind him followed a herd of goats. 

“Fresh milk and bottled milk for children,” 
he cried. 

“What is he, a curio seller?” I asked. 

“No, a milkman,” answered Fil. “The bam- 
boo jug is a pint measure. The earthen bottle 
holds the milk. And if you want fresh, warm 
milk for the baby, he will milk it here from one 
of his nibbling goats, right into the bamboo jug.” 

“Always fresh milk!” shouted the vendor, 
as with his fingers, he made a snapping sound 
to call his herd of goats. 

“Really, a walking dairy,” I remarked. 





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We were all tired when we reached home. 
The Angelus bell was sounding from the high 
white tower of the Iglesia. Every one stood 
still, bowed, made the holy sign, and then said 
a quiet prayer. 

After a late dinner, Fil and Filippa as usual 
kissed the hands of their parents, bowed to them, 
and retired. 

I thought how dutiful a custom this was, and 
I recalled how, in my own country, too many 
rude, selfish children, full of conceit, have little 
respect for their parents, and really attempt to 
order their elders around. The Filipino boy 
seems to know his place, as a boy. 

The grander Philippine houses, on the second 
floor, have a large hall called the “caida” 
63 


6 4 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


(ca e'da). Here every one meets to enjoy the 
feasts or music. The kitchen and the bath- 
house are small separate buildings in the yard, 
or “ azotea ” (a tho tai'a) . Every one must bathe 
once a day at least. 

During the great heat of the day, after lunch, 
or “tiffin” as it is called, everyone sleeps a rest- 
ful hour or two. Therefore visiting and dinners 
are carried on long into the night, when it is 
cooler. 

To keep out the sun, instead of glass, opaque 
mussel, shells are used in the many little frames 
of the windows. This makes a pearly, soft 
light, like moonshine in the house, even on the 
brightest, hottest day. 

I noticed that women stood in the streams, 
and pounded clothes on smooth, round rocks. 

“That’s our way of washing, out in nature’s 
laundry,” explained Filippa’s mother. 

When Fil and Filippa were aroused each 
morning, I noticed that their mother did not 
touch or shake them, and I ventured to ask why 
she called so long and loud, even though she 
was standing over them. I remarked that in 
our land, a father would soon shake his lazy 
boy awake. 

“You shock me,” replied Fil’s mother. “We 
in the Philippines believe that it is most un- 


HOME LIFE 


65 


lucky to disturb the sleeping spirit of a person 
by a touch. When the spirit is ready to answer 
to the call, it is ready to awake and come back 
into this world.” 

“ Why, how superstitious !” I exclaimed, per- 
haps owing to my lack of real manners ; for 
good manners should allow for differences on 
unimportant things. 

“Not more superstitious than you are, when 
you refuse to pass under a ladder, or to begin a 
voyage on a Friday,” Fil’s mother answered. 
Then I realized that every person, every race, 
and every nation, and every color of mankind 
have their faults as well as their virtues, weak 
points as well as strong and good ones. There 
is something good in even the worst of us ; and, 
perhaps, something bad in the best of us ! 

“I can testify that you Filipinos surpass my 
people in one thing,” I said. 

“Thank you. What is it?” asked FiFs 
mother and father together. 

“Respect for parents and poor relations,” I 
answered. “Fil and Filippa kiss your hand and 
bow, morning and night. You, though a father 
and mother, are also as dutiful as children. You / 
keep grandfather and grandmother, and poor 
old relations around the home, where they can 
always have a place to sleep, a kind hand near, 


66 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


and can get a bite to eat anyway, and a tear of 
sympathy over their sick bed, at the last.” 

“ By our religion, and by the warmth of our 
own hearts, we Filipinos believe it to be a cruel 
sin to send our parents and relatives to asylums. 
God gave us to them at the beginning of life, 
and God gives them to us at the end of life,” 
replied FiPs pious mother. 

“What a very, very beautiful saying, and 
what a beautiful deed!” I said. 

FiFs grandmother was sitting in a corner of 
the room. I could see a tear of joy stealing 
down her sweet old face. 

We all now rose ; saluted each other ; and, as 
we retired for the night, we each said “Adios” 
(a de os'), which means “good night” or 
“good-by,” or really, “To God we commend 
you.”. 


>hap+er XVIII 

TVess 



The next morning the washwoman was bring- 
ing in the clothes. Knowing that I was a 
stranger, and would like to bring a true story 
home to American boys and girls, Fibs mother 
asked me : “ Would you like to learn the names 
and kinds of our garments ? You will notice 
that they are very different from yours.” 

“ Certainly I would. I live in a land where 
some people spend more time over clothes than 
over learning, character, good deeds, or the 
day’s duty,” I replied. 

“This large flowing skirt of red, green, or 
white, is made of cotton, or hemp; and some- 
times a little silk may be mixed in. We like 
bright colors, and a long train. No short, tight 
skirts in our styles,” explained Filippa’s mother. 

“How sensible,” I remarked. 

“This loose waist or chemisette is sometimes 
white and sometimes colored. It is made of 
jusi cloth, that is, cloth woven from banana 
67 


68 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


leaf fiber. You see it is softer, thinner, and 
cooler than your linen or cotton.” 

“It is lovely,” I acknowledged. 

- “Loose wide collars are in style with you 
now, but they have always been in style here. 
We call it ‘panuelo’ (pa nu ai'lo). It is our 
whitest, thinnest fiber, made from pineapple 
leaves, just like our handkerchiefs that I told 
you about. You see we starch it. It hangs 
down the back to a point, and it is very cool 
and dainty,” explained Filippa’s mother. 

“What wide sleeves!” I exclaimed. 

“Yes, sinamei chemisettes, or waists, have 
very wide sleeves, but are short to the elbow. 
We starch them out, so they will be cool and 
neat,” replied Filippa’s mother. 

“I notice that Filippa’s hair is worn plain,” I 
remarked. 

“Yes,” replied her mother, “ we brush the hair 
back plain ; tie a knot or leave it loose. We 
like jewelry, and we wear splendid lace man- 
tillas, or shawls, over the head.” 

“What odd slippers with no heels!” I ex- 
claimed. 

“Yes, we all like to have our feet ready to 
jump into mud or water, for our roads are not 
yet good. These slippers are called ‘chinelas’ 
(che nay'las). They have no heel and just a 


DRESS 


69 


catch to put the toe in. They have no laces. 
With them we slide along the ground. But we 
cannot back up straight, or run fast in them. 
If we wish to go back we must turn around, so 
as to keep our chinelas on our toes. The young 
people do not wear stockings in our warm 
climate, where one lives close to Nature, — too 
close sometimes, when the snake bites/’ 

“But taken all together, what a happy Eden 
this is for a boy or a girl,” I added. 



Next day as we were walking down the road 
to the good-by feast, I noticed a crowd gathered 
in a circle, and stooping over. 

“What are they doing; digging gold?” I 
asked. 

“No, they are making game-fowl fight,” 
Moro replied. “They wager money on which 
will be the winner and put the other to flight. 
The boys and men get very much excited.” 

“This good-by feast in your honor, before 
you return home, is called a ‘fiesta’ (fe ais'ta),” 
explained Filippa. “Father and mother and Fil 
have spoken to the Padre, and the barrio-elders ; 
and everything is arranged.” 

“But what is a ‘barrio’ ?” I inquired. 

“It means a village, a ward,” replied Filippa. 

70 



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THE “ADIOS” FEAST 


7i 


I could hear bands and orchestras gathering. 
Here and there were tall bamboos bent over the 
paths, and from their arches hung banners and 
colored paper lanterns. 

Carromatos (car ro ma' tos), small carriages 
drawn by little black ponies, were bringing people 
in. The men and boys were dressed in white 
duck, as though they were going aboard yachts. 

In front of the houses and the Iglesia (church) 
and convent were hung flags, festoons, 
streamers, wreaths, and bunting. 

Flowers and palm leaves were strewn along 
the path that the procession would take. 

Then we all started. The procession was led 
by the bands to the Iglesia, where, from the 
high campanile tower, the church bells were 
ringing. In the church the good Padre said a few 
words, and gave us all his prayers and blessing. 

While we were inside, evening had fallen. 
When we stepped out into the square, we saw a 
fairy starry land. Some one had lighted not 
only the lanterns and torches, but the larger 
southern stars of these tropical islands were 
shining brightly overhead. Colored rockets 
were also shot up into the night. 

The barrio-saint — really, the small statue of 
the patron saint of the village — was carried at 
the head of the procession. 


72 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


Then to the music of the bands, we all marched 
home to the big upper hall, and gathered around 
a wonderful table. Roast pig, chicken, phea- 
sant ; mountains of rice and fruit ; candied 
ginger and mango ; pickled chutney, which is 
sweet and sour at the same time and also spiced ; 
coconut and nipa wine ; flowers as big as a 
hat and smelling as sweet as a bottle of perfume ! 
Sandalwood and spice-incense smoked sweetly, 
and nearly hid the good Padre and Fil’s 
father, who sat at the head of the table. 

The orchestra tinkled all kinds of drums, 
castanets, bells, fiddles ; many of them having 
strange shapes and shrill noises. Funny, fat- 
cheeked boys were blowing the very life out of 
the flutes. All were very happy ! 

“Not happy to see you leave, but trying to 
make you so happy that you will not have time 
to entertain regrets to-night. We want to re- 
member your smiling face,” said Fil’s father. 

Then the table was cleared and moved. 
The company all gathered around the hall. 

Suddenly a hush ; then a clamorous call of 
the orchestra! Then another hush — Filippa, 
dressed in silver spangle, and Fil, dressed in 
scarlet and gold, suddenly rushed from opposite 
sides of the hall to do the love-dance, in which 
the brave soldier woos and wins his sweetheart. 


THE “ADIOS” FEAST 


73 ' 


They came near each other. She seemed to 
be coy ; to quarrel sometimes ; to beg ; to 
promise. They whirled about ; they executed 
steps ; they snapped castanets. The orchestra 
sang, whistled, snapped, strummed. The music 
flowed in waltzes ; it jerked in Castilian meas- 
ures ; it whispered. It serenaded, while Fil car- 
ried a mandolin with a ribbon. Filippa dropped 
her handkerchief : Fil gracefully picked it up. He 
danced in pleading. He showed all the pretty 
steps he could do. As a sign that the soldier 
had won his lady-love, Filippa at last con- 
sented that he should return the handkerchief, 
crown her proudly with it on her cloud of thick 
hair, and waltz away with her triumphantly. 

It was a pretty tableau. The orchestra broke 
out in loud and full harmony, with now and then 
a wild Moro yell or shout, from the flutes and 
drums. 

How we applauded ! Fil and Filippa had to 
bow their thanks many times, from the side of 
the caida (hall). 

Then there was another pause, after the Padre 
and Fibs father had whispered. 

Suddenly Moro ran out with a rush, to give a 
wild Mohammedan dance. 

How strangely he was dressed ! He wore 
tight red trousers, a red and blue turban on his 


74 


FIL AND FILIPPA 


head, and a tight jeweled tunic, covered with 
pearl buttons. His sash was green, dotted 
with purple spots. He had purple parrot 
feathers at his waist and in his turban. 

His feet were bare, as is the custom in his 
native wilds in the south island. The round 
shield that he carried, glistened. He waved two 
terrible kriss-knives, with jeweled handles. Over 
his shoulder he carried a spear. How he 
drummed on that shield ! He hurled his knives 
into the air, and cleverly caught them before 
they fell. He seemed to pursue a foe ; to crouch 
like a boy scout ; to listen ; to follow the track ; 
to meet the foe ; to battle for his life and country. 
At last he seemed to conquer with a wild yell, 
just as he was hurled backward and his shield 
was thrown aside. All this, while we held our 
breath in excitement, he acted in his strange, 
barbaric dance, keeping time with the wind-like, 
volcano-like music of his native Moro islands. 

The fiesta and the dances were over at last. 
The dancers and the guests departed. 

Next morning, as we stood on the coconut 
wharf waiting for the boat to come in, Fil per- 
haps noticed that I looked sad. I saw by his 
smile that he was preparing one of his jokes to 
cheer me up. 

“ Father,” said he, “may I take our friend 


THE “ ADIOS ” FEAST 


75 

back to America, so as to see that he arrives all 
right ?” 

“Wait till you grow bigger/’ replied Fil’s 
father. 

“Then don’t blame me if he gets lost,” 
laughed little Fil, as he tried to stand on his 
tiptoes, and lifted his hand high above his head, 
so as to appear as tall as a man. 

After all this courtesy, all this happy, laugh- 
ing time, in these sunny summer islands of the 
purple Philippine seas, it almost broke my 
heart, as I left for home, to answer Fil, Filippa, 
their kind parents, Moro, the good Padre, and 
little Favra who were calling from the wharf: 
“ Adios, amigo” (a de os' a me'go) — “To God 
we commend you, our friend.” 


The End 


Printed in the United States of America. 


























































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DALLAS 


True Stories of Great Americans 


New Illustrated Biographies of Our National Heroes Written for 

Boys and Girls 

Cloth , i2tno , illustrated , each 50 cents 


This important new series of brief and vivid biographies for boys and 
girls gives an intimate picture of the lives of our greatest national heroes. 
They tell the most striking incidents of our history in the personal terms 
of interest to children, and establish in their hearts and imaginations char- 
acters great in ideals, achievements, and patriotism, — true and worthy 
heroes to follow. 

In each instance the author has been chosen either because he is particu- 
larly interested in the subject of the biography or is connected with him by 
blood ties, and possessed, therefore, of valuable facts. 


DANIEL BOONE 

By Lucille Gulliver 
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS 
By Mildred Stapley 
DAVY CROCKETT 

By William C. Sprague 
GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER 
By F. S. Dellenbaugh 
THOMAS A. EDISON 

By Franklin Rolt-Wheeler 
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
By E. Lawrence Dudley 
ROBERT FULTON 

By Alice C. Sutcliffe 
ULYSSES S. GRANT 
By Lovell Coombs 
NATHAN HALE 

By Jean Christie Root 


SAM HOUSTON 

By George L. Bryan 
JOHN PAUL JONES 
By L. Frank Tooker 
LAFAYETTE 

By Martha Foote Crowe 
LA SALLE 

By Louise S. Hasbrouck 
ROBERT E. LEE 

By Bradley Gilman 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

By Daniel E. Wheeler 
WILLIAM PENN 

By Rupert S. Holland 
CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH 
By Rossiter Johnson 
GEORGE WASHINGTON 
By W. H. Rideing 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 


CHICAGO 

BOSTON 


SAN FRANCISCO 
NEW YORK 


ATLANTA 

DALLAS 






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